


playing with fire

by fanfictionandcats



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictionandcats/pseuds/fanfictionandcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ robbcella boss/assistant au ]</p><p>"She would be a competent assistant and not get fired. She could do it.</p><p>At least, she thought so until she met her new boss.</p><p>It turned out that he was five feet, eleven inches of rugged, chiseled man (with thick, red-brown curls, deep blue eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass.)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [this](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/33541) by myrcellastarks (on tumblr). 



“Have you gotten a chance to copy those Agreement of Sales for the Patterson project?”

“Yes, here you go.” She replies, handing him the copies.

“Thanks.” He cracks a polite half-smile, and disappears back into his office.

Myrcella drops her head onto her keyboard, ignoring the infuriating little pinging sound her computer makes from her eyebrow on the Q key.

It was simply unfair. When her father told her about what she was to do Winterfell Industries, she’s imagined some stuffy office job with the biggest excitement being someone bringing in cake for their birthday.

Despite what certain second-rate gossip magazines proclaimed, she wasn’t even that bad of a kid. Joffrey was into a lot more shit than she was, but of course, he was the golden child and could get away with mass murder. Sure, she liked to party, she’d had her fair share of embarrassing intoxicated moments. But nothing _crazy._  It was probably the time Cersei caught her with pills that really did it. Since then, she had been subjected to a constant stream of complaints about her apparent “uncouthness” and how she was single-handedly “ruining the family name”.

When he just couldn’t take the nagging anymore, her father shipped her off to New York (which, to be fair, is kind of an awesome place) as a test. If she could get her act together, she could come back to King’s Landing and her life. But, if she didn’t, she’d be sent off to depressing, rainy Storm’s End. Away from basically everything.

So fine. She would lay off the weed, she’d only drink enough to be tipsy. She would be a competent assistant and not get fired. She could do it.

At least, she thought so until she met her new boss.

Robb Stark, one of the youngest CEOs of the current business world, had taken over Ned Stark’s job sixth months ago. She’d heard his name come up a couple times in conversation between her parents, but never really paid that much attention. All in all, he’d just been a name of someone who lived in a whole other country.

It turned out that he was five feet, eleven inches of rugged, chiseled _man_. With thick, red-brown curls, deep blue eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass. He held the door open for the cleaning lady every morning, knew all the names of the staff and greeted them personally. Winterfell Industries’ numbers were also steadily climbing, so much so that people couldn’t seem to stop talking about it (and talking to him about it, he’d already had four different interviews in the last month).

And it was like he loosened his tie in slow motion.

She knocks on his open office door, and he looks up. He’s sitting behind this comically large desk with so many papers spread over it you could almost miss the laptop teetering on the edge.

“Need anything? Coffee?”

God, did she have to sound so _breathy?_

He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Okay.” She replies lamely, and shuffles back to her desk.

She plops back down, knocking over a cup of pens and pencils - _who put that there_ \- off her desk and all over the floor. She stares at them on the floor in a blank sort of resignation.

“Fuck.” She whispers under her breath, and gets down on her knees to clean them up.

Well, she starts to, but then she hears an uncomfortable cough from somewhere above her. She stands up quickly, pulling down the bottom of her skirt.

Mr. Stark’s arms are crossed authoritatively, but other than that he just looks sort of uncomfortable.

He’s so _cute_.

Come on Baratheon, focus.

“Actually, when you get a chance, could you also, um, send me the… dates for the uh, the shareholders meetings?”

“Yes, I’ll do that, right now.” She says quickly, sitting back down in her desk chair. She kicks the pencil cup towards Julie’s desk and opens up a new window on her computer.

She definitely doesn’t look at his ass as he walks away.

 

 

 

∆           ∆           ∆            ∆           ∆            ∆

 

She rests her chin on the heel of her hand, glancing around the crowded bar at the shift and pull of people. Sansa Stark invited her out tonight for drinks as a sort of _you don’t know anybody here and since our dads are besties and we used to see each other sometimes when we were younger so I’m being polite_ type of thing.

“How goes the nannying business?” Myrcella asks, stirring her drink with a tiny black straw. She’s still in her work clothes, not really bothering to go home in between.

Sansa shrugs. “Alright.” She says. “The kids are adorable, and it’s flexible hours, I just… I wish I was doing more. Like, with a real job.”

“Nannying’s a real job!”

“But - “

“Seriously. Changing all those diapers, snacks, arts and crafts… you couldn’t pay me enough.”

Sansa laughs, clear and tinkly. “I guess you’re right.” She gestures toward the bartender. “Shot?”

“Sure.” Myrcella says automatically, and then narrows her eyes. “You’re not spying for my dad, right?”

“No.”

“Okay good.”

They do shots, and then some more. The conversation becomes looser - Sansa’s actually cool. She talks about this guy she’s been seeing, one of the Tyrell brothers from Tyrell & Sons, owners of the gardening stores and first-rate tobacco suppliers. She says he was working in the city for a while, but he’s back home for another month before he moves to New York permanently, and how she really wants to see him.

She asks Myrcella about how Robb is at work.

Efficient. Polite. _Hot_. “He’s a good boss.”

Myrcella tells her what happened with her mother, why she’s here, and how she has to stay out of trouble so she can get back home. Sansa mentions Joffrey in passing, and then they spend almost an hour complaining loudly and animatedly about him.

Myrcella suddenly remembers that Sansa actually _dated_ Joffrey, back when they were teenagers and Sansa, her father, and her sister Arya had stayed in London for the summer.

They drink more, they laugh more. It’s a good time.

Sansa’s phone buzzes, and without even checking, she turns towards the bar’s entrance, waving her hands over her head.

“Robb! Robb, over here! Yay, you’re here!”

Robb? Oh _no._

Sure enough, emerging out of the crowd came Mr. Stark and immediately she wished she was wearing something different. Something preferably tighter and with more leather.

Mr. Stark, in fact, was dressed in an untucked light blue buttondown, which basically looked pajamas compared to the suits he wore to work. Scruffy, almost, but still attractive.

Myrcella sips her drink again, to have something to do, as the siblings greet each other, Sansa with a sloppy hug and him with an amused, patient face.

“Hello Myrcella.” He says politely, ever the gentleman.

“Hi!” She says, stifling a cringe at how loud she says it.

She takes another drink. _Oh boy._

Besides the fact that he’s her boss, she forgets that he’s actually six years older than her. Not that it really matters, but any reason at all to discourage herself from grabbing by his collar and licking his face helps.

“Are you drunk?”

Sansa shakes her head vigorously. “No. Definitely not. Not yet anyway.” Myrcella bites back a laugh and Mr. Stark rolls her eyes as Sansa grins.

The red-haired Stark leans over and looks past her brother, gathering up her bag and sweater in an excited rush. “That guy over there with the tattoo just gave me a wave, I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Sansa, maybe you - “

“Shhhhhh no!” She jabs her finger at his face angrily. “Do not overprotective-big-brother at me right now, with your cru - ”

“Okay.” He suddenly says flatly, “Go ahead.”

“Ooop.” Sansa mimes zipping her lips. “Right, shhhhh.”

And then she hops off and flounces away towards the table in the back. Leaving Myrcella. Alone. With her boss.

Weirdly, Robb - _Mr. Stark_ doesn’t leave. Instead, he sits down in Sansa’s previous seat next to her.

There’s an awkward pause as she stares into the bottom of the empty glass thinking of something to say that wouldn’t be “inappropriate”, or something. But when she looks back up at him, she catches him quickly recovering from staring at her legs.

Hmmm.

“So.” Myrcella says, running her finger absently around the lip of her glass. “Have you decided whether or not you’re going to make a move?”

“What?”

“On the Ricard account?” Okay, so maybe she did that on purpose. She always did like playing with fire. “I emailed you the plans before I left today.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, I’m not sure yet, no - ” He coughs. The tips of his ears look a little red. She loves it. “Has to go through consulting before we do anything, you know.”

“Mmmhmm.” She nods.

Mr. Stark starts drumming his fingers against the bar, staring straight ahead of him. Myrcella watches him out of the corner of her eye, taking another sip of her drink.

“My mother keeps talking about wanting to have you over for dinner soon.” He tells her. “She thinks it’s rude we haven’t asked yet.”

_Only if we can play footsie under the table._

“That would be amazing! I am absolutely awful at cooking, so I’ve just been living on Chinese takeout for weeks.”

“From where?”

“Peking Duck House. It’s right on the corner of my block, so.”

“Peking Duck?” He scoffs. “That’s barely even food, if you’re getting takeout, get the best.”

“And what is the best, in your oh-so humble opinion?”

He laughs at that. “It’s a fact, Pig Heaven is the best Chinese takeout in New York.”

“Pig Heaven?”

“Pig Heaven.” He repeats. He taps the bar and the bartender appears, slinging a washcloth over his shoulder and looking expectantly at Mr. Stark. “Vodka on the rocks.”

She fights the urge to raise her eyebrows at his drink choice. Though it makes sense, she always imagined him as a scotch guy. Like, holding a scotch glass in a thousand dollar suit staring broodingly out of his top-floor office.

The bartender slides him his drink and he takes a gulp, and grits his teeth.

They talk a little, he argues the importance of picking the right Chinese food. Work doesn’t come up, thankfully. He asks how her family is, her mother, and her brother.

She remembers how awful Joffrey was to Sansa. She imagines he’s probably one of Robb’s least favorite people, which is great, because he’s one of Myrcella’s least favorite people too.

She rolls her eyes, and he laughs, almost relieved to give up the polite russe of pretending to not completely despise Joffrey.

It feels kind of like a first date.

Over her shoulder, though, she sees two girls sitting in a table across the room from them basically undressing him with their eyes. And, well, it makes her a little jealous.

She scoots closer to him, as he’s telling her about his little brothers starting college, glaring at the girls over her shoulder. They glare back, but then turn into each other and start whispering and don’t look at Mr. Stark again.

After another drink, he hints something about having to get going (“Early morning tomorrow.”)

“I guess I shouldn’t be getting drunk with my boss anyway.” She says, feeling bold. “You know, bad form.”

“Who cares?” He says. It’s the first time she’s ever heard him sound his own age. She realizes how much pressure he must be in all the time, being not even thirty, and the leader of such a huge corporation all by himself.

But they finish up their drinks, and she hops off the barstool.

She gathers up her coat, and they make their way out past the crowd. When she gets to the door, she glances back and sees Sansa laughing with a few other girls she thinks look vaguely familiar from her father’s parties.

“Going to get Sansa?” She asks him.

“Let me help you get a cab, she's fine.”

They leave the bar, stepping out into the crisp New York night. She pulls on her jacket, adjusting the strap of her purse as he steps out onto the curb, checking for cabs coming up the street.

He looks like he needs a shave, the later-than-five-o’clock shadow obvious in the fluorescent streetlight.

She thinks about how nice that scratch would feel on her inner thighs.

She’s going to hell.

He’s got his hand out, but cabs continue to whiz by. She saunters up to him, curling her hand around his bicep and bringing his arm down.

Ignoring how _muscular_ he feels, she smirks and says, “I got this.”

She takes a deep breath, sticks her finger in her mouth and whistles loud, and a cab barreling up the street switches lanes, jerkily pulling up in front of them.

His eyebrows almost touch his hairline. “Impressive.”

She shrugs. Her uncle Renly taught her, when he visited King's Landing when she was eight. They went to the zoo, and Renly had taken a cab so as to sneak out without inviting Joffrey. She smiles at the memory.

Before she can get to the handle, though Mr. Stark dives to open the door for her. It’s like he breathes chivalry.

She steps off the curb and behind the cab door.

“Well, thanks.”

Her mind feels fuzzy, and she can almost see herself grabbing his wrist, pulling him into the cab and taking him home with her. But instead, he sticks his hands in his pockets and steps back onto the curb.

“Yeah, get home safe.”

She slides into the leather seat, pulling her bag in with her. “You too.”

He smiles, and closes the door.

 

 

 

∆           ∆           ∆            ∆           ∆            ∆

 

Things change between them after that night. He’s more casual with her, once they even had lunch together.

She likes her job. She likes him trusting her with things, even if they are just faxes. She’s doing something, for the first thing in her life. Which sounds like a shitload of rich-girl existential bullshit, and maybe it is. But she’s happy to feel needed.

And he’s sweet. He’s got all these weird quirks she’s obsessed with finding, like how he turns off his desk light before he’s even put on his coat or gotten his bag, like he’s worried he’s going to forget and has to do it while he’s still thinking about it. Or that he chews on his pens, and that his mom calls him every Thursday, and he always spends almost an hour talking to her.

It’s like she’s addicted to looking at him, watching him go through life. And he’s so unnecessarily _nice_ , right down to helping old ladies cross the street.

But the closer they become, the guiltier she feels. She wants him. But she knows his family’s reputation, honor and honesty and moral goodness even in business.

She can see the way he looks at her sometimes. Or when he watches her laugh at something he’s said. And for a second, maybe, it looks like something. But she can’t be sure.

She’s typing up a proposal when a man with dark hair and a cocky smile stops in front of her desk.

“Hi, can I help you?” She asks, looking up from the screen.

“I’m looking for Robb Stark.”

“Theon.” Mr. Stark grins, half-way out of his office. “Just give me a second, I’ll grab my coat.”

He disappears, and Theon’s hands come to rest on the edge of her desk.

“So. You’re Robb’s assistant.” He says, exuding a complacent air that makes Myrcella wary. He’s more like the guys she used to hang out with in King’s Landing.

“Yep.”

“Hmmm.” He looks her up and down unabashedly, biting his lower lip. “Myrcella… Baratheon, right?”

“Yes.” She says shortly, returning to her work. She wonders why Mr. Stark would ever be friends with a guy like this, he seemed like an asshole.

“I’m Theon Greyjoy, nice to meet you.”

Greyjoy. The last name sounded familiar. Maybe her father mentioned the Greyjoys owning sea ports, or something? She couldn’t remember.

“He isn’t bothering you, is he?” Mr. Stark reappears, tugging on his coat and taking his gloves out of the pockets. He looks suspiciously at Theon, who holds his hands up in a surrender.

“Of course not, perfect gentleman, you know me.” He chortles, and then turns back to Myrcella, closer than before. “Have you ever considered modeling? You’re _gorgeous_.”

She smiles politely. This is her job and she will be professional. “Thanks.”

Mr. Stark, however, swallows and looks very uncomfortable all of a sudden, as Theon straightens up and nudges his shoulder.

“I’m going out for lunch. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He says quickly, starting away without waiting for his friend.

“Okay.” She calls after him.

Theon rolls his eyes, and then winks at her. “Bye.”

Trotting to catch up with Mr. Stark, she hears him say, “You didn’t tell me she looked like _that_.”

They turn the corner before she can gage his response.

 

 

 

 

∆           ∆           ∆            ∆           ∆            ∆

 

 

That Friday, Myrcella sticks around long after almost everyone else has left, because _he_ hasn’t gone yet. He sits in the light of his desk light, on the floor, leaning over a pile of important-looking papers.

“I come bearing sustenance.” She announces, nudging the door open and tip-toeing around the paper. She hands him two Chinese takeout boxes a pair of chopsticks.

“ _God_ , thank you.” He groans.

She breathes a laugh, surveying the mess in front of him. “Do you need any help?”

He pulls back, looking up at her from his spot on the floor.

“You don’t have to stay, it’s Friday night. You must have something else to do, some big date to go on, or something.”

_Ha._

“Nope.”

“I can’t offer you any overtime -”

“I’m happy to help.” She says cheerfully, knowing he’d never be selfish enough to actually ask her to stay. “So, what can I do?”

He reluctantly hands her a yellow highlighter and a pen.

“Highlight every document that says December eleventh at the top of the page.”

She nods. “Okay.”

They work in silence for a while. She tries to follow his system as best she can, but their hands keep accidentally brushing and it’s getting really distracting.

His dress shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his forearms veiny and _strong_. He’s got a whitish scar crossing the left one, and she wonders where it’s from.

Okay, no, _focus_. Numbers.

Finally, they take a break to eat.

“This shrimp tempura is literally the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.” She conceeds. “You were right, this is the best Chinese food in the world.”

“Told you.” He says smugly, picking around in the bottom of the box with his chopsticks.

“So, what’s all this for?”

“Possible merger. But legal accidentally faxed over documents from the week, instead of the days.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He shrugs. “Everyone’s already left for the weekend. And if anything goes wrong, it’s my fault. It doesn’t matter if it actually was me. It’s my name. My dad, he’s… sick. In the hospital now. And he could have named anyone else to take over while he was out, but he chose me.” It’s followed by a silent _and I have to make him know he didn’t make the wrong decision._

She searches for something to say, and decides on the truth.

“You’re great at this, though.” She says. “Seriously. You’re an awesome boss. And speaking completely off the record, I guess you’re sort of a half-decent human being in other ways too.”

“Half-decent. Wow, look out, don’t want me getting a big head from all these compliments.”

“Too late.” She fake-coughs.

He jokingly glares at her for a moment before leaning over and stealing a shrimp from her takeout box.

“Hey!”

She snaps her chopsticks at him and goes to take a piece out of his box, but he jerks it away. She finds herself falling almost completely in his lap, fingers skidding against his knee before catching herself.

His cologne smells so good and he’s _so close_ , his Husky-blue eyes staring at her like he wants her just as much as she wants him.

And she blinks and then she’s kissing him. His lips are frozen for a second before they echo hers, kissing her back with the fervor of a starving man. She lifts her hands off the ground and instead wraps them around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he follows, leaning over her with both his hands on either side of her. Her tongue licks into his mouth and he reciprocates, moving in a clumsy and frantic rhythm with hers.

She feels her foot knock over one of the takeout boxes, and pulls away.

“Shit.” She says briefly, glancing back at the box and spilled noodles on his floor.

He pulls her back to him immediately. They both kind of taste like Chinese food, and they’re getting used to each other’s mouths, the way they fit together, but it’s great.

He’s kissing her like she’s something special. It feels so _powerful_ , just… _him_. Like a dam breaking, his full attention is focused on her, taking what he wants. Her hands span his shoulders, dropping down his chest -

“Wait, wait, I can’t.” He suddenly breathes, pushing himself away from her.

He runs a hand through his hair, his shirt untucked and a smudge of lipstick next to his lip. He looks deliciously filthy. “It’s not… appropriate.”

“Who cares?” She mutters, echoing his words from the other night.

He looks at her and she can already see him labeling her as a mistake.

He probably just sees the slutty assistant that tried to sleep with her boss, now. Sad little Myrcella, trying to hook a powerful, rich man. Like her _mother_.

The thought makes her blood boil. His eyebrows crinkle down at her uncertainly and she stands up off the ground with as much dignity as she can manage. “Fine, then, I’ll just go.”

“Myrcella.”

She doesn’t wait. She strides across the floor to the elevators, hearing his steps behind her and tapping her foot why the fuck is this elevator taking so long and then the door opens. She runs inside and as soon as the metal doors close in front of her, she lets out a breath.

She shoves the glass door of the building open, exploding onto the street and almost running down the block towards the subway entrance.

She rips her lighter out of her coat pocket, cigarette crushed between her tightly pursed lips. She clumsily switches her thumb across the spark wheel but her hands shake too much and she can’t get a light.

She throws the cigarette, still whole and unlit, on the ground and keeps walking.

She manages to fight off tears until she’s on the train, sandwiched between a suspicious guy in a huge black jacket and a woman with a stroller in one hand and her baby in the other. She suddenly misses the brighter light in the London Underground, when she’d ditch the town car her parents had insisted she take and gone to wander around by herself.

Dropping her coat on the floor as she walks into her apartment, she feels like her limbs are weights. She climbs into bed without taking off her makeup, curls up in a ball and thinks of everything else except boys’ hands.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He clears his throat. “Myrcella, can I talk to you for a moment?”
> 
> “Of course.” She says flatly, but stands with no small amount of contempt. 
> 
> She follows him into his office. He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it. 
> 
> “Are you going to fire me?”
> 
> “No.”

He sits in his office for a long time, until the thin suggestions of morning start to show through the dark sky.

He finishes the highlighting and the sorting in a controlled panic, then moves on to answering emails. He organizes his desktop and then tests out all his pens and throws away the ones that don’t have any ink anymore. He does all this before spending a while spinning back and forth in his desk chair and drinking from the hidden bottle of scotch Theon left for him as an office-warming gift.

He knows what Theon would say about all this. He’d give him his signature shit-eating grin and start whooping and probably try to high-five him and then say something demeaning and sexist.

He wishes he could talk to Jon, but he’s in Special Forces now, off in some remote location where he’s sure he’s facing much more important decisions than whether or not it’s okay to want to fuck your assistant.

Which isn’t even a decision at all. It’s _not_ okay. He knows it’s not okay.

His father is dying. No one’s supposed to know that yet, but he is. He’s dying, and the company goes to Robb permanently after that day. Even now, he’s in over his head, and he’s just filling in. The day his father passes, Winterfell Industries will be on his shoulders.

And he can’t be distracted by Myrcella, no matter how beautiful she is.

But _God_ , she’s beautiful. In this brash, loud, unapologetic way. He’s seen her with Sansa, seen her laugh and dance and knock things over and swear.

He remembers meeting her for a stint back when he was in high school. He was a senior and she was just some gangly sixth grader with braces and beauty-pageant curled bright blonde hair. Her family was staying with his, their fathers old friends from business school. They were both at dinner a couple times, but besides that, he hadn’t really seen her at all. He was out with Theon and Jon most of the time back then.

When his father first told him about Myrcella coming to work for him, he’d been annoyed. He remembered Cersei and the way she’d treated his mother and her asshole brother Joffrey and all the shit he’d put Sansa through. But he had to respect his father’s wishes, and set her up with a desk outside his office.

He was relieved that she hadn’t been anything like her mother. Or her brother. She was all her own.

The chinese food box that she’d kicked over still sat upturned on the floor, dark stain bleeding into the floor. He regards it with a dull sense of guilt, both for doing what they had in the first place, and then making her run out after.

Burying his face in his hands, he tries to block out the piercing sunlight creeping in through the cracks in the shades.

 

 

∆           ∆           ∆            ∆           ∆            ∆

 

 

“So. How are things with you and Myrcella?”

His fork clatters loudly off his plate and onto the floor, and he drops to pick it up so fast he almost hits his head on the table.

As he straightens back up, he pointedly ignores Sansa’s smug, all-knowing half-smile.

“She’s fine.” He says shortly.

They’re out to brunch together, at some trendy rooftop new restaurant Sansa wanted to go to. A third chair sits open for their mother, running late. Sansa obviously takes this opportunity to pester him about things she's convinced she knows best about. 

She snorts. “I’m sure she is, I’m asking how things are with you and her.”

“They’re - I - There’s nothing going on between us.” He says. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t look like that, I’m serious. She’s my assistant and - “

“And you like her.”

“Sansa.” He says warningly, but his younger sister does not take the hint.

“The last time dad asked you about her you were like, _She’s very productive_ and then did that thing that you do when you lie!”

“What thing?”

“You have this tick, you wipe your mouth everytime you lie, you just did it again when you said there was nothing going on!”

“I’m eating, obviously I’m going to wipe my mouth.”

Sansa sits back in her chair, crossing her arms and pouting at him. “Fine. Be stubborn.”

“Could I get another fork?” He asks a nearby waiter. The man nods, shifting a plate of mini-omelettes to his other hand.

“Of course, sir.”

Robb turns back to his food, taking a gulp of his drink. Sansa picks at her “Red Flannel Hash Browns” purposefully, her mouth pressed into a tight-lipped I know better than you expression too alike to his mother’s.

“Even so, it’s - it would be bad form, anyway. Completely unprofessional.” He says. It comes out entirely too defensively and he cringes as Sansa laughs.

“Mom!” Sansa smiles as Catelyn settles down in the wicker chair between them. She leans over and presses a kiss to both of her childrens’ cheeks.

“Sorry I’m late, I was just dropping off some supplies for your father.” “That man cannot live without his Sudoku.”

Sansa flashes Robb a look that said _we’re not done talking about this._

Robb ignores it and asks his mother if she managed to work out the seating arrangements for their next animal shelter benefit yet.

 

 

∆           ∆           ∆            ∆           ∆            ∆

 

 

Monday comes around entirely too soon. He’s dreading what he has to do, but it has to be done.

He gets to the office too early, barely anyone is there yet except Antonina, their ancient morning cleaning lady and the mailroom guys.

He tries to get some work done, going through the monthly report from accounting and refilling his stapler. Finally, around exactly around nine, he sees a blonde sitting stiffly at her desk outside his office.

She hears his door shut, he can tell, but she doesn’t turn around.

He clears his throat. “Myrcella, can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Of course.” She says flatly, but stands with no small amount of contempt.

She follows him into his office. He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it.

“Are you going to fire me?”

“No.”

She looks surprised to hear that. Her hair’s up today, wisps falling around her face and making him want to touch her neck.

He continues, begrudgingly. “But I’m the CEO of this business and it’s not professional to be doing… what we did.”

“I understand. But I really need this job. I promise I won’t… I won’t act that way again. Please.” She stutters. Before he can say anything else, she tightens her jaw and hurries defensively, “And anyway, you were the one who kissed me, so if anything, you should be trying to make sure I don’t sue you for sexual harassment.”

“You kissed me!” He counters in disbelief. She scoffs.

“The first time! Then I pulled away but you were like _nope, I’m not finished -_ “

“It takes two people to kiss, you know!” He thunders, slamming his fist down on the desk. “You think it’s _easy_ for me not to want you when you’re wearing that skirt?”

She flinches at the sound, but not at his words. She looks down at her skirt for a second and then back up at him. There's a determination in her eyes, but also a kind of victory already.

"You like it?"

He can't help nodding - it makes him want to put his hands all over her. Now, his fingers itch and his resolve is melting fast. 

Heavy-lidded, she takes a step towards him.

“I want to kiss you right now.” She blurts out. 

The words  _stop! don't! walk away!_ tug in the back of his mind, but they are silenced when he rests a hand over the supple skin of her neck.

“I want you to.”

So she does.

It’s messy, over excited and eager. His tongue delves into her mouth aggressively, hands wrapping around her lower back and dragging her closer to him. A dam breaks because he’s giving in, and she tastes amazing and he concentrates on how her chest feels pressing against his. He pulls away for a second, checking over her shoulder to make sure the door’s closed.

When he sees it is, he dips his head down and starts kissing her neck. She walks him back with her until the back of her thighs hit the edge of his desk.

Both hear things clatter to the floor, but neither stop this time.

He grips her ass, lifts her up onto his desk, knocking his office phone and the pile of papers out of the way. She hooks her legs around his hips and holds herself up by hanging onto his shoulders, her fingers digging into the taut muscle hiding under his starched white shirt.

“Mr. St - “

“Just Robb, Mr. Stark makes me think of my dad.”

“Okay.” She leans in close to his ear, “ _Robb._ ” She punctuates it by biting at his earlobe, and feels him shudder against her.

Her black pencil skirt rides up and her panties come into view, and he makes a choking noise in the back of his throat that makes her thighs quiver and scoot closer. She’s unabashed in the way she’s kissing him, and the only thought in his head is _I need to fuck you._

She clumsily unbuckles his belt and slides her hand down his stomach into his pants, palms him through his boxers, and he feels his mouth go dry.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Greedily, he pops open the buttons of her shirt, curving his hands against her breasts through her bra, black lace. His hands squeeze, and she pushes against him. Slipping his fingers under the fabric, his thumbs circle around her nipples - God, she had perfect tits - and kisses her neck again.

She whines desperately, grabbing one of his belt loops and pulling him closer to her. He can almost feel her heat against his thigh, and he spares a hand to shove her panties aside.

Rubbing up against her clit makes her back arch and her chest is heaving she’s breathing so hard. He snakes a finger along her folds before circling the pad of his thumb around her clit. He watches her bite her lip and swallow sounds - desperate, enthusiastic, sounds and he wishes they were at his place; then, she could let loose all those delicious sounds and he could see how loud he could make her scream.

He can’t take his eyes off her as she fucks his hand, lipstick smudged, holding onto his shoulders for support. Her shirt billowing open and her soft collarbone exposed, he sucks on her jaw briefly before moving downward.

“I’ve wanted to do this to you since you started working here - “ He mutters into the crook of her neck. “ - You’re _so fucking_ … you’re just…”

Her nails scrape across his scalp, hips working up against his fingers. He adds another, and she gasps at the invasion. Her patterned exhales become more and more heavy, and her grip on him tightens.

He’s so caught up in watching her, he almost forgets he’s not inside her until she breathes, “ _C-come on_ , fuck me, _please_ , I - “

Through a completely muddled head he reasons, “I have a condom in my wallet - “

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m on the Pill, just _do it already._ ” She almost shouts, helping him shove down his pants and boxers low enough to get his cock out. She strokes him a couple times, but he’s already painfully hard.

He pushes inside her and they both share a sigh of both relief. Pulling out briefly, he thrusts his hips up again and she whines. He kisses her to swallow the noise, setting a jerky rhythm and placing both hands on either side of her waist to keep her in place.

She rolls her hips to meet his and they both frantically shove against each other. The desk shakes, and he’s suddenly overcome with the thought of _what if it breaks?_  But then she pulls his hair and all coherent thought drops out of his mind.

Mid-morning light blinks through his open window (thank god there’s no neighboring building close enough to see them). It clings to her skin making it look pale and creamy. She feels so good, tight, wet walls contracting around him and the only thing sweeter is the friction when he pulls out.

He delves his hand beneath the cup of her bra and squeezes. She starts to cries out but stops herself angrily, biting the heel of her hand. Her pencil skirt is shoved up to her belly button and her red panties sit on the floor next to his feet. He drives into her at a heavy pace that makes her scratch against his forearm and demand, “Faster. Harder, please Robb - ”

He does what she asks, speeding up and biting the inside of his cheek so hard he thinks he tastes blood. Both of them are panting and he can’t think how either of them could possibly work after this.

“You feel so good.” He grits out between his teeth.

She smiles for a second before she gasps, “Yes - there, please.”

His thrusts become quick and shallow, desperate to get her to come before he does. Sweat collects between her breasts, makes the hair on the back of her neck stick to her skin, and she drops her head back, panting “Oh god, oh _fuck_ , oh - “

She yanks his hair again and he feels the familiar tightness building in his stomach. He starts fucking her in earnest, too fast and frenzied and he almost slips out of her but he can’t control himself. He digs his fingertips into the skin on her waist and hopes they bruise and she’ll have to walk around for at least a week with impressions of him marked on her body.

She suddenly clenches around him, nails breaking through the skin on his shoulder. She comes hard and open-mouthed, her hips making a few aborted twitches.

His wave finally crashes too and he comes inside her. His vision almost whites out and he has to catch himself on his hands, on the desk on either side of her. He drops his head to rest on her shoulder, and she brushes a hand through his hair and past his temple, sighing contentedly.

Slowly and reluctantly, he takes himself out of her, and pulls back up his pants and boxers. She slides down off his desk and picks up her panties from the floor.

He wishes he could take a shower right about now. He wishes they both could. Together.

She turns to him, expression half cautious and half… well, happy.

“I got lipstick on your face.” She says. She brushes her thumb over the corner of his mouth.

He buttons back up her shirt carefully, noting that there’s a button missing he probably popped, and then looks up at her again. He doesn’t want her to run away again or for him to mess it up by saying the wrong thing, but it pops out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“Was that okay?”

Luckily, she snorts. “That was some of the best sex I’ve ever had, are you kidding me?”

He barks a laugh, and she echoes him with laughter too.

“But, um, was this just a one-time thing, or…?” She trails off, taking a moment to straighten her skirt, before continuing, “Because I like you. And I want to have more sex with you. Preferably in many different positions.”

He thinks about fucking her in his bed, in his shower… on his kitchen counter -

“Same here.”

She sobers quickly. “But I need to keep this job.”

He takes a step toward her. It claws at his gut to say it, he knows it was wrong, but he wants this too badly to say anything else. “Then... our business can just stay our business.”

And he kisses her again.

 


End file.
